


Ends

by Kirklockian



Series: Four Letter Words [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Church Route Spoilers, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hegemon Edelgard von Hresvelg, Male My Unit | Byleth, NewGame+, Rated to be Safe, Spoilers, dark themes like suicide, no beta we die like Glenn, some Dark-Souls-like horror, will become less canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24675679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirklockian/pseuds/Kirklockian
Summary: Three times Byleth and Edelgard face off in the imperial throne room. Across time, across lives. And after watching her die three times, Byleth learns his lesson the hard way. Sometimes when you win - you still lose.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & My Unit | Byleth, Edelgard von Hresvelg & My Unit | Byleth
Series: Four Letter Words [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789468
Comments: 18
Kudos: 15





	1. In Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KobsterHope07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KobsterHope07/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem: Three Houses, and I have no money. Please don't sue me.
> 
> "Ends" functions as a prequel of sorts to my other fic "Four Letter Words" but can be read on its own if you've played the SS, AM, and VW routes. It will be less canon-compliant in its last two chapters. I decided to post this as an off-shoot story instead of relying too much on flashbacks in FLW. (Aw, who am I kidding? There will still be too many flashbacks...) So, please read that one first for the context. Or at least the prologue.
> 
> Please read and comment or leave a kudos! A comment is as good as gold to me.

## I. In Ashes

29 Garland Moon, Imperial Year 1186 

With a boom like thunder, the gold-filigree double doors were thrown open wide, and Byleth marched into the imperial throne room with his ragtag army following behind him like ghosts. They were survivors first and foremost — all that remained of their class at Garreg Mach Monastery’s Officers’ Academy. Beyond that, what they were to him remained nebulous. _Students?_ he might have wondered under better circumstances. _Soldiers? Friends? Colleagues? Disciples?_ The lines between them had somehow blurred over the course of the war, becoming virtually indistinct. 

But he was too angry to think of such things now. After a hard day’s worth of fighting through Enbarr’s narrow streets, battling imperial forces outside churches and opera houses, alongside canals and through markets packed with panicking civilians, spurred on by the closest thing to fury he’s ever felt, there was no one left to stop him now. He had already informed the others in no uncertain terms that she would be his and his alone. The Ashen Demon would finally have his due. 

His jaw was set hard, his muscles tensed to strike. _For Flayn,_ he reminded himself as he gripped the Sword of the Creator’s hilt more firmly. _For Father. For Sothis. For Claude and Dimitri. For the Blue Lions. For the Golden Deer. For Rhea._

Like a beacon, Edelgard sat upon the Hresvelg throne with Aymr held loosely in her hand and her rapier lying across her lap, impossibly alone and paler than he remembered. The great hall, large enough to fit hundreds of people comfortably, was shockingly devoid of imperial soldiers. The hues of sunset spilled in through the windows near the vaulted ceiling, bathing the tiled floor and crimson carpet in an orange and pink glow. The dying light glared off her war crown. 

Byleth didn’t stop, didn’t speak. His bootsteps were sharp and staccato as he purposefully crossed the hall in long strides. He was already halfway to the throne by the time her voice cut through the heavy silence like a knife. 

“Professor,” she called out to him with an infuriating half-smile, sounding as composed as ever. “I suppose you think you can defeat me. Is that right?” 

He stopped and stared at her. He said nothing, letting the question to hang in the air between them. _Of course I can,_ he thought, his mouth twisting. He had already left another of his students lying in a pool of his own blood on the pavement just outside the palace gates. 

Hubert’s failure to prevent them from reaching the throne room could mean only one thing, but if Edelgard cared that her loyal vassal was dead, her carefully-guarded expression certainly didn’t show it. Her lilac eyes remained as cold and calculating as that day in the Holy Tomb. 

Slowly, so slowly, she pulled herself to her feet, using the throne as support. Her flamberge rapier clattered to the ground, but she made no move to retrieve it. She stood tall against a backdrop of Adrestia’s golden twin-headed eagle with wings unfurled over the Crest of Seiros. Clutching Aymr in one hand, she surveyed the room, taking in the worn faces of those she had once called her classmates. Some she had even called _friend_. 

“I will never give up,” she told them at last as she stepped down from the dais and onto an outstretched crimson carpet. Her every movement was slow and measured. “Even if my arms and legs failed me, I would still find a way to move forward.” At the bottom of the stairs, she paused, raised Aymr, and aimed it at Byleth’s heart. “I did promise when next we met, one of us would breathe our last. Prepare yourself, my teacher.” 

He needed no more of an invitation than that. 

He rushed her with the Sword of the Creator in both hands, and the two came together with a clash, their weapons locked in a red-hot glow. 

_The more things change, the more they stay the same._ The quote occurred to him now, dim and distant, through a fog of adrenaline, fatigue, and rage. Something Jeralt had been fond of saying with his acerbic sense of humor. It may have been years since Byleth was Edelgard’s instructor, but he could tell at a glance that she wasn’t fighting with her full strength. She had moved to parry too slowly, and just the act of locking blades with him had caused her to grimace and her forehead to break out in a thin sweat. 

Against all logic, she seemed to be holding back, and he wasn’t sure if that was just a clever ruse or a sign of injury. Experimentally, he pushed harder and observed her stance as she pushed back. Normally, she could throw him back with her prodigal strength, but here she was, visibly compensating with one arm over the other when he _knew_ she would ordinarily use both. Countless training sessions with her had taught him that she didn’t have a dominant hand. 

_Ah,_ he thought, realizing. So it was true then. He withdrew his sword quickly and ducked under her follow-up swing. She _had_ been severely injured at Gronder Field. The final revenge of Dimitri and Claude and everyone else who fell that day. 

If she had been fully rested and fighting at full strength, then he knew this battle could have gone either way. With that relic in her hands, she fought like a raging storm; she could take him and the rest of the Eagles on all at once and still come out ahead. She had been his star pupil, after all, for good reason. She had always been the first to class and the last to leave, eager to ply him with questions about governance and strategy, especially theoretical ones, and improve. If only he had known then that this knowledge would eventually be used against him and everyone else at Garreg Mach. 

This, however, was nothing like their brief encounter in the Goddess Tower. This would hardly be a fight at all. 

With the distance closed between them, and like so many of their training sessions before, she went on the offensive at once, darting away and leading with the swiftest and strongest strike she could muster. He parried her blow for blow, content to let her tire herself out. Once or twice, she even had to take the time to catch her breath and expel the blood from her mouth. Every jab was slower than the last, every swing a little less forceful, her breathing growing more and more ragged with every lunge. But a part of him expected this: Edelgard had never been one to passively stand by and let the fight come to her. She would not try to shirk fate. As inexorable as it was, marching ever onward, she would meet it head-on. 

There was nothing honorable about this. Nothing valiant or heroic. He could clearly see the pain written in the lines of her face as her composure wore out, the desperation in her lilac eyes, and the defeated sag in her shoulders — and he wondered if the others saw this too. She did not even have the shadow of a chance at winning, and she _knew_. The educator in him wanted to stop, his feelings of rage slipping from his grasp, replaced instead by what could only be pity. This was a look he had seen many times at Garreg Mach — according to Catherine, the look that said ‘No matter what I do, I cannot win.’ This was a dying woman going through her final spasms, determined to play out the last act of the opera, to follow her path to its violent, bitter conclusion. 

It was difficult to believe that, if it hadn’t been for Sothis, he would have died for her. From the extent of her unseen injuries, not even the Divine Pulse could save her now. 

Even after everything she had done, Byleth found himself unable to hate her. It was hard to, after seeing her like this. How had it come to this? he wondered, revisiting old regrets. Where had he gone wrong? How had he not noticed? Again, he found himself wishing for Sothis, for her comforting presence and words of encouragement. What would the Goddess herself have to say about the path he had taken? 

Even after everything she had done, he found himself unable to hate her. It was hard to, after seeing her like this. How had it come to this? he wondered, revisiting the same regrets he’d had since the revelation at the Holy Tomb. Where had he gone wrong? How had he not noticed? Again, he found himself wishing for Sothis, for her comforting presence and words of encouragement. What would the Goddess Herself have to say about this path he had taken? 

By this point, Edelgard was all but swinging blindly. He deflected her attacks easily, swatting Aymr away as easily as an adult swats away a child’s toy axe. Their fight had gone on long enough. 

After sidestepping another one of her charges, Byleth flicked his wrist, and the Sword of the Creator came unraveled, pooling at his feet. A second flick sent it coiling around one of Edelgard’s armored greaves. He pulled and she fell backwards, spilling onto her cape. Aymr fell to the tiled floor with a thunderous crash. 

With yet another flick, he retracted the Sword of the Creator. Then he went to stand in front of her. 

There was no hatred in her eyes as she scrambled to her knees and tried, unsuccessfully, to rise. She was simply too tired and her armor too heavy to gather the necessary momentum. Even while using Aymr as leverage, her entire body trembled just from the effort of holding herself upright. If it weren't for that, she might almost have been kneeling for a coronation. She spat the blood out of her mouth, flecking the crimson carpet. 

And Aymr, he noticed, was no longer glowing at all. As if it too recognized the end in sight. 

“It looks as though . . . my path will end here,” she said softly, breathing hard. All he saw was a sea of red. Even her teeth were stained red. “My teacher . . . claim your victory.” 

Much like he did in the Holy Tomb when confronted with the truth, he froze. She must have seen the hesitation in his eyes because her voice rose sharply. “Strike me down. _You must!_ Even now . . . across this land, people are killing each other. If you do not act now, this conflict will go on forever.” 

She bowed her head, her voice gone so quiet that only he could hear. “Your path . . . lies across my grave. It is time for you to find the courage to walk it. If I must fall . . . let it be by your hand.” 

Any lingering hope he’d had for her surrender was dashed instantly upon hearing her final request. 

He tried to remember the girl who had helped him find his bearings when he first came to Garreg Mach. The dutiful house leader who had painstakingly helped him plan their monthly missions. It was hard to reconcile that girl with the woman who kneeled in front of him now, wavering under her own weight and begging to die. Hesitatingly, he raised his sword. He could taste the bile rising in his throat, sharp and bitter. 

Below him, a gauntleted hand on the floor clenched into a fist. “I wanted to . . . walk with you—” 

His mouth twisted again as the words left her lips. He could feel his resolve faltering. If he didn’t do it now, then he never would. In one fluid motion, he brought the sword down and cut her off mid-sentence. He felt some resistance at first, but the sword cut through smoothly with a wet, sticky sound. 

He closed his eyes. Distantly, he heard the telltale thump and clink of gold as a helmet-sized mass hit the floor. The clatter of bone as something heavy slumped sideways with a sick squelch. The rattle of armor as it came to a rest. Then nothing. The silence in the room and in his chest was loud. Louder than everything else, louder than he ever thought possible. 

Would they write songs and operas about this moment? he wondered. How the valiant Hero of Fódlan fought and killed the monstrous tyrant? Would they play it up and make it sound like an epic battle between two foes who were always destined to meet this way? Or what it truly was — an execution, and only a week after she turned twenty-four years old. 

_This is what you wanted, isn’t it?_ he asked himself. _What you came here to do?_

His eyes burned just like they had when Jeralt died. He could feel something warm and wet trickling down his cheeks, but his arms remained locked in place, his hands gripping the Sword of the Creator with white-knuckled intensity. 

Wordlessly, Byleth turned away and opened his eyes. Before him swam so many stunned faces. A bloodied, badly-beaten Caspar propped up by an exhausted-looking Linhardt. Dorothea with her teary eyes glued to the grisly scene behind him, her hand cupping her mouth. Petra with her glassy stare and bruised knuckles gripping her bow. Bernadetta with her face buried in her hands, chest heaving, repeating a string of denials. Even Ferdinand was ashen-faced with a tinge of green, looking like he might be ill. A somber-looking Seteth shielding a trembling Flayn from the view. Dedue with his impassive, dead-eyed stare. 

“Is it . . . over?” Caspar asked breathlessly. 

Seteth placed a hand on Flayn’s shoulder to steady her. “It would appear so.” 

"So ends the 1,000-year-old Hresvelg legacy," muttered Linhardt tiredly. "How unfortunate." 

Instinctively, Byleth crouched and ran the flat side of his sword along the carpet, trying to get the worst of the blood and gore off. Then he cleaned the other side the same way. A part of him hated the idea of taking it with him. When he rose again, he almost felt disconnected from his body, like it was moving forward without him, and he had been left kneeling by his student’s already-cooling corpse. He felt his body slip the blade through the loop of his belt. 

“This way,” Byleth said, his voice wobbling as he floated past them all and towards a side corridor. He wanted — no, _needed_ — to get away from this place, away from _her_. “We must find Lady Rhea.” 

“P-Professor?” Dorothea questioned, her voice brittle. “We can’t just . . . Shouldn’t we. . . .?” 

"Professor Byleth?" Flayn tried as well. 

He didn’t wait for them, didn’t answer. Already he was probing the hole in his chest like a scab, exploring the feeling that he had lost something irreplaceable. A heaviness that settled in the center of his chest. He didn’t know why. _She betrayed us,_ he told himself, balling both of his hands into fists. _She betrayed me._

Victory had never felt so much like defeat. 

  


* * *

  


The next morning, after a lengthy search throughout the palace for Rhea and a short, restless sleep in Enbarr’s church, their forces regrouped and prepared to leave Enbarr for Garreg Mach. The archbishop was still babbling to herself, last he’d heard, which the Knights of Seiros and the faithful were both taking hard. Luckily, Seteth had been able to “procure” a noble’s carriage for Rhea, and he, Cyril, and Flayn were tending to her. 

It meant little to Byleth. When he thought about returning to the monastery, when he thought about the Church of Seiros as a whole, all he could taste was bile. Still, he was somehow able to rally the strength to gather the last of his Eagles and the Knights together and, with help from Catherine, Shamir, and Alois, lead them through the city, as silent and somber as a funeral procession. 

They moved slowly, snaking through a conquered city in mourning, and it was Petra who pointed to the top of the city gates as they neared. “Professor,” she said stiffly from behind him, _“look.”_

When he turned to look at Petra, to see where she was pointing, it was as if a shadow had fallen across her bronzed face. He followed her finger and looked up. Atop the city gate, a small, silvery banner was flying alongside the victorious Crest of Flames. It was so small; he had to shield his eyes from the morning sun to see it. Only, the longer he looked, the less it looked like a banner and more like— 

He turned away abruptly. 

“Goddess,” choked out Ferdinand, “is that—?” 

Somewhere behind them, a panicked Bernadetta asked, “What? What is it?” 

_No,_ thought Byleth as the hollowness in his chest throbbed painfully. _No, Dedue. What have you done?_

When he finally left the dungeons, carrying Rhea in his arms, Dedue had been nowhere to be found. Byleth had wondered where the burly man had gone. Now they all knew. 

He refused to look at any of his Eagles. He clenched his jaw, feeling helpless. “Don’t look,” he told them, but it was too late; the damage was already done. Already someone was crying again. It sounded like Bernadetta. Farther away, he heard someone retching. Maybe several. He lowered his gaze to the ground, watching the flagstones pass under his horse’s hooves. He refused to look up again until they were leagues from Enbarr, moving farther into the mountains, and they could no longer smell the sea. 

Justice had never tasted so bitter. 


	2. The Dark Side of the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for you, KobsterHope07. Thanks again for the push. I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> I'm going to post this now and maybe tweak it later when I have fresh eyes. (I know it's kind of lacking towards the end.) I took a few liberties with the Blue Lions and Azure Moon route, but I'm quite happy with how this turned out. Before you ask, yes, I do still have some lingering trauma from fighting Edelgard in AM on maddening. Here, I tried my best to incorporate one of the cool ideas the FE:TH devs talked about toying around with but ultimately didn't make it into the game.
> 
> I think this is the closest I will ever get to writing a Hegeleth fic. Also, I may or may not have lied about the "Edelgard dying three times" thing... Let me know how I did and if it was obvious I listened to the Dark Souls and Bloodborne OSTs on repeat. Thank you for reading and please leave a kudos or comment! Constructive criticism, "good job" or "I loved it" one-liners, "Your writing is terrible", whatever. :)
> 
> Sadly, I will NOT be posting a new chapter for this story's parent fic "Four Letter Words" this month (August). I'm kind of homeless right now, living in a relative's guest room, and I've been scouting out apartments forty minutes away so I can be closer to my new job. COVID-19 is not helping with this at all. But I'll make it up to you guys eventually.

## II. The Dark Side of the Moon

30 Verdant Rain Moon, Imperial Year 1186

The second time the gold-filigree doors were thrown open wide, they were thrown back with nearly enough force to wrest them from their hinges, and there was nothing but a gaping maw of darkness waiting for them on the other side. Night had fallen across Enbarr as they fought their way to the imperial palace under the moon’s pale glow. Now inside, the sputtering light from their torches, fireballs, and faintly-glowing hero’s relics could only penetrate so far into the deep and cavernous dark.

This time, it was fearless Dimitri who led the way past the double doors on their softly-squealing hinges. He whirled into the great hall with all the energy of an enraged bull, with his tattered fur cloak billowing out behind him. “Edelgard!” he bellowed into the gloom. “It is over! Enough of this madness!”

His steel bootsteps were loud and purposeful as he delved farther into the throne room, wielding a torch in one hand and Areadbhar in the other. In the center of the hall, Dimitri stopped and shook his head, whipping his ponytail from side to side. He turned in circles, extending his torch to peer into the dark, as if listening for something or unsure of where to go. The flickering light stretched his shadow out across the tiled floor behind him and cast an eerie glow over his gaunt, one-eyed face.

Byleth followed slowly like the rest of the Blue Lions, nursing their injuries as they advanced in a loose formation and looked around warily for hidden reinforcements. His hand was placed tentatively on the pommel of the Sword of the Creator. Looking ahead, where he knew the raised dais and Hresvelg throne should be, he thought he saw two pinpricks of red in the endless sea of black, but they winked out of existence shortly thereafter.

This was not at all what he had expected. But then again, he had not expected this life to diverge as much as it had from the last one. He had not expected to find so many demonic beasts or unfamiliar mages scattered throughout the palace, led by Solon and another they called Myson. He had not expected to find “Tomas” reinforcing the Great Bridge of Myrrdin alongside Ferdinand and Lorenz before he beat a hasty retreat; Edelgard’s uncle, Volkhard von Arundel, assaulting Derdriu in force; or “Monica” assisting Cornelia in Fhirdiad. He had not expected Jeralt to die on another “secret mission” to the northwesternmost coast in the kingdom. He had not expected Edelgard to show him as much favor as she had this life, attending every seminar and lecture she could with the Blue Lions despite her own contentious relationship with Dimitri. He had not expected it to be so difficult and time-consuming to earn the trust of various students and faculty around the monastery while also spying on “Tomas,” “Monica,” Edelgard, and Hubert. He’d stretched himself too thin and gotten nothing out of it. And his Eagles . . . After personally witnessing the strength of their convictions against her, he had most certainly _not_ expected them to side with Edelgard. It had seemed illogical or a cruel joke, yet side with her they did. (All but Dorothea, who had fallen in with the Blue Lions remarkably easy this time around.) Watching his Eagles fall, being the one to deliver their deaths personally — there was a tightness in his chest he could not shake loose. A tiredness in his bones that sleep could not cure. It felt like another betrayal, another failure.

A familiar voice tickled in his mind, interrupting his thoughts and causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. _“Are you ready for this, little one?”_ asked Sothis, and the concern in her voice was palpable. _“Now is not the time for doubt.”_

His grip on his sword tightened. _As ready as I’ll ever be,_ he thought back, nodding slightly.

Beside him, a swordmaster turned her head to flash him a toothy grin.

“Huh,” said Catherine, grinning through her split lip. “Is the war over already? It looks like Her Majesty might have fled the city.”

Byleth’s mouth twisted. “I doubt it. Edelgard is no coward.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I know her. She won’t run.”

Catherine’s eyes were suspicious, accusatory. “You say that. For months now, that’s all you’ve said. ‘She _won’t_ do this’ or ‘she _will_ attack that.’ But after all this time, after everything she’s done, even after taking classes together, eating together, training together — did any of us really know her? I mean, really, _truly_ know her?” she asked. She shifted Thunderbrand, which she carried lazily over her armored shoulders, into a more comfortable position. “Did _you_ , Professor? As I recall, you still got a few things wrong.”

As always, Catherine’s way with words was as sharp as her sword. Byleth glared at her but said nothing.

Catherine sighed. “Look, I’m just saying, maybe she saw which way the wind was blowing and decided to—”

“For the love of Seiros, _be quiet,”_ Shamir hissed suddenly. In one smooth motion, she plucked two arrows from her quiver and nocked one of them to her brave bow. She moved slowly, silently, like a predator stalking its prey, her every muscle tensed to strike as her violet eyes scanned the blackness around them for any whisper of movement.

Catherine rolled her eyes at her partner but did as she was told. Following Shamir’s example, she removed Thunderbrand from her shoulders and gave it a one-handed, experimental swing.

As they approached Dimitri, they began to hear what the ex-mercenary must have already, somehow — a soft scraping sound that was oddly reminiscent of someone dragging something either sharp or heavy across the floor. Byleth picked up the pace with longer strides, and the other Blue Lions followed suit in his wake until they were spreading out around Faerghus’s future king in a widening ring of light. In his peripheral vision, Byleth thought he saw another flash of red cut through the dark, but it was gone again by the time he tried to look closer. An ominous feeling settled over him like a shroud.

They were being watched.

 _“Do you sense it too?”_ Sothis whispered. _“Oh, what a frightful feeling! I dare say it almost feels familiar somehow . . . but is that you? Or me?”_

Byleth frowned, knowing Sothis was right. There was a strange sense of familiarity from revisiting this moment again, but it extended well beyond a simple case of déjà vu. More than that, something just felt _wrong_. As if this darkness was not natural. It almost reminded him of Zahras. He thought of Solon’s dying words from earlier, spat through a bloody leer as he collapsed against a wall: _“Into the darkness with you.”_ Cringing, Byleth thought again of Gronder Field and his own shock as imperial forces began to bombard the hill around them with fire — as well as Bernie’s fortified position on the hilltop.

What exactly was Edelgard planning?

“Dimitri,” he said uneasily, his voice low, “something’s wrong. Maybe we should—”

Dimitri gave him a sidelong look, signaling for silence, and raised his torch above his head. “Who goes there?” he called out. “Identify yourself!”

Predictably, there was no answer.

“Surrender, Edelgard!” he continued. “I won’t ask again. We did not come here to play games with you in the dark.”

The scraping noise stopped as suddenly as it started. The silence its absence left behind was deafening.

Without warning, a new sound emerged from the shadows around them, a deep, rolling rumble that sent chills down Byleth’s spine because it somehow sounded like _laughter_ of all things. He glanced at the others, whose expressions looked just as confused, just as fearful, in the dying light of their torches. The rumble morphed into a gravelly and heavily-distorted voice that said, “Oh, Dimitri. Did you honestly believe I would make this easy? That I would simply give up?”

Hearing that, Byleth’s frown deepened. Those words sparked a distant memory of a dying woman in her war regalia slowly, so slowly, descending a set of stairs. _Edelgard?_

The rumble began again, low and deep, as the scraping sound started anew, this time like the rasp of steel against a grindstone. It reverberated throughout the hall, echoing off the walls and pillars, making it difficult to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. Whoever or whatever it was could be lurking just out of sight, watching them, and they wouldn’t know.

It was Ashe who jumped first. “W-what was that!?” he yelped, aiming an arrow wildly into the shadows. “Over there! I j-just saw something move!”

As one, the Blue Lions turned to look, trying to catch a glimpse of what was moving unseen in the dark. Whatever it was had to be large. Heavy. As the seconds dragged on, the tiled floor beneath their feet began to shake ever so slightly.

Byleth gripped his sword more tightly.

Catherine, unfazed, held Thunderbrand at the ready with both hands. “About time,” she said, sounding almost pleased as she stood back to back with Shamir. “Let’s finish this once and for all.”

“Agreed,” said Shamir softly, nodding. “For Lady Rhea.”

On Byleth’s other side, a fireball hissed and almost went out in the palm of its wielder’s hand. “Ooh, get ah-hold of yourself, Annette,” Annette whimpered, breathing hard.

“It’s going to be all right, Annie,” called out Mercedes to her friend from the opposite side of the circle, her tone filled with reassurance. “Just try to stay calm, okay?”

“Steel yourselves, everyone,” came Gilbert’s booming and authoritative voice.

Slowly, so slowly, a monstrous form seemed to take shape from the shadows around them. As it shambled towards them, farther into their ring of light, its pitch-black body blended perfectly into its backdrop of darkness in a way that helped obscure it from the human eye. The creature was sickly thin with unnaturally elongated forearms that ended in sharp, sword-like talons, which it dragged along the floor, leaving gouges. It moved on digitigrade legs and towered above them all, significantly taller than even Gilbert. It was so tall that not even their light could reach its shadowy face, so all they saw were two glowing coals were its eyes should be. 

“You shall be obliterated . . .” growled the creature. “I will take you out so fast you will not even have a chance to lament. . . .”

 _"What is_ that thing!?” cried Sothis.

 _A . . . demonic beast?_ thought Byleth, though that didn’t seem quite right. Demonic beasts could not speak as far as he knew. Not to mention this creature looked nothing like the others they had encountered throughout the palace. As its glowing red eyes settled upon him, all the warmth drained from his body, flooring him like an icy fist punching through his chest. The unmistakable feeling of recognition, of one recognizing the other’s presence, was undeniable.

Somehow, Byleth _knew_ this creature. The implication alone sent him reeling.

Without warning, he felt a familiar tug within his chest, and then, quicker than the eye could track, the gangly creature skittered towards Ingrid and her warhorse, its body little more than a blur of black and red. Neither woman nor mount had time to react before they were thrown with surprising force against a nearby pillar with a cut-off squeal and a deafening impact, spurring the remaining Blue Lions into action while Byleth stood rooted to the spot, too stunned to move.

Annette screamed and, unthinking, threw her fireball at its half-turned shoulder, which it shrugged off.

Dimitri roared, half in shock, half fury.

Sylvain howled _“Ingrid! No!”_ and kicked his wyvern into a two-legged run past Byleth with an agitated flap of its wings.

“Surround it!” thundered Gilbert. “Leave it nowhere to escape!”

Angry now, Ashe let loose arrow after arrow with his longbow as he began to fall back behind the rest of the Lions, who were already closing in to engage. Shamir did likewise, her expression fixed, looking calm and collected even as their arrows bounced harmlessly off the creature’s scaly hide.

“A demonic beast that can _speak?_ What is the meaning of this, Edelgard?” demanded Dimitri angrily, aiming the tip of Areadbhar at it. “If you believe so strongly in your ideals, why won’t you come out of this infernal darkness and fight us yourself?”

Felix was closest to the monster. He ran at it with a yell, his Zoltan Sword poised to strike. There was a flash of steely talons, and Felix rolled reflexively. The creature’s talons instead grazed the Aegis Shield, which lit up like a beacon, filling the entire hall with a blinding white light. As he raised a hand to shield his eyes, Byleth caught the briefest glimpse of the creature’s tail and two withered wings silhouetted before the light dissipated. Then Felix was falling, knocked to the ground with a grunt, and his blade was sent sliding away into the shadows. While the mortal savant lay dazed on the floor, the creature above him flexed its long, spidery fingers with what might have been approval before it turned, vaulted over Catherine, and disappeared into the dark once again. 

It was gone in an instant. Byleth listened intently to its loud, bounding movements as they grew more distant and more distant.

 _“What are you waiting for, you fool!?”_ cried Sothis shrilly. _“An invitation!? Get in there now and do something!”_

Byleth shook his head, dispelling the haze, and turned to check on Ingrid. With Lúin and her silver shield in hand, the paladin had disentangled herself from the body of her dying horse. “Don’t worry about me!” she called out to them as she began to hobble away, shaking her head and waving Lúin at Sylvain, who was hovering nearby to assist. “Go, Sylvain! For the last time, I’m fine!”

Suddenly and without warning, a golden glow enveloped the limping paladin — Mercedes’s healing magic at work.

Byleth was already weighing his options in his head. He knew it could have ended so much worse for Ingrid, but he could still go back; he could undo the injury, spare her warhorse a slow death. Thinking quickly, he reached into himself to activate the Divine Pulse, intending to launch an attack before the beast did, and felt the world around him start to slip away . . .

. . . only not for long.

Hardly a second slid by in reverse before the world reassembled itself, and time began to surge forward once more, tossing Byleth back into the present with a heart-stopping lurch.

Two fiery pools of red materialized in the distance. “I am sorry, my teacher,” came the rumbling voice from the darkness all around them, “but not even time itself can help you now. If we must fight again, we fight on even footing . . .”

Byleth felt as though he’d just been slapped. His eyes dropped to stare at his hands, clenched knuckle-white around his sword, in dismay. Only one student had _ever_ called him “my teacher.” Only one. But could the monster really be . . .?

 _Sothis!_ he thought frantically, grasping for answers like a drowning man. _What was that? What happened to the Divine Pulse?_

Even the sheer silence in his mind did not bode well. _“I . . . do not know myself,”_ said Sothis at last, beginning to sound afraid.

To that, Byleth didn’t know what to say, what to think. He looked up quickly, almost defensively, when one of the Lions approached.

“What is it talking about, Professor?” asked Dedue. As he raised his torch, the exhausted-looking knight threw Byleth a concerned look. “Have you fought this creature before?”

“I have no idea,” Byleth lied. He could only hope his suspicions were wrong.

Behind Dedue, Dimitri wrenched Felix to his feet and then wordlessly marched off into the dark after the monster. Rather than go looking for his lost Zoltan Sword, the mortal savant removed his second sword, a wickedly-sharp Wo Dao, from its sheath on his hip and followed.

Byleth and the rest of the Blue Lions fell in behind them, and, together, they advanced cautiously into the impenetrable dark. Dimitri made a beeline for the two burning balls of red, the only light they could see that didn’t blink, didn’t flicker, and seemed almost inviting in the void. Strangely, the closer they came, the higher up the eyes appeared to be, until they eventually arrived at the base of another stone pillar. Looking up, they saw something from their worst nightmares; the monstrous creature was now hanging one-handed from the stone crossbeams and looking down upon them all with contempt as it slowly lowered itself down head-first like a giant spider, revealing two gnarled horns and rows of teeth on the petal-like protrusions around its throat. To Byleth’s horror, once it passed within their flickering light, he found he could still make out humanoid features in the beast’s half-mottled face — the straight nose, the impetuous jaw, the silvery hair, and most telling of all, the familiar war crown that somehow sat atop its head, gleaming.

Byleth nearly dropped his sword in shock. _No . . . It can’t be. . . ._

If his heart had been beating at all, it might have skipped a few beats or even stopped altogether. As it was, Byleth could only stare at her in horrified fascination as his worst fears were confirmed. “It’s . . . _Edelgard_. . . .” he mouthed, voice failing. There was no mistake. But how? What did she do to herself? Somehow, impossibly, this was even worse than their confrontation the life before. He couldn’t help but think of the demonic beasts and strange mages they’d found scattered throughout the palace, of Solon and Myson’s secretive machinations, and wonder how they were all connected.

Byleth’s mind raced with the possibilities. Was this more of their terrible work? Had his own interference caused this? It was his sleuthing around the abandoned chapel that seemed to have scared Kronya away, leading to their class being assigned a different class mission the month the Blade Breaker was supposed to die. And instead of dying in the freezing rain on the monastery’s outskirts, Jeralt was given another secret mission to the northwesternmost coast of Faerghus, where he and the knights beneath him were later found dead from an apparent ambush. Byleth himself was never given the chance to confront Kronya and Solon in the Sealed Forest. The two had simply disappeared after the first Battle for Garreg Mach, having never given him evidence to use against them. 

Byleth’s mouth twisted. Edelgard had been known by many names in his previous life: Edelgard the Tyrant, Edelgard the Heretic, Edelgard the Traitor. Was it his fault that Edelgard had been made into Edelgard the Monster?

Dimitri, at least, still seemed unaware of the truth. As everyone else kept their distance, he stood looking up at Edelgard with thinly-veiled disgust. “What a grotesque creature. To be changed beyond all recognition . . .” he muttered.

“D-Dimitri,” Byleth choked out, finding his voice, “it’s Edelgard!”

The torch in Dimitri’s hand fell slightly. Wide-eyed, he jerked his head towards Byleth, and even his face seemed paler than usual. “What? Edelgard. . . .?” When he glanced back at Edelgard, he took a hesitant step backwards.

Above him, Edelgard sneered, revealing a row of jagged teeth. “Do you see at last?” she asked with a rumbling laugh.

“So this is what lies at the end of the ideals you served so diligently,” said Dimitri with a shake of his head, his expression and voice hardening. “I have no pity for one such as you. If this is the future you hoped for, then you deserve no compassion.”

Edelgard’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Compassion? From _you?_ I heard what you did to Randolph von Bergliez, Dimitri. Perhaps we are not so different, you and I.”

For a moment, Dimitri stiffened, and Areadbhar looked like it would snap in half if its wielder gripped it any tighter. A shadow seemed to pass over his profile in the dim light of their torches. Unlike Edelgard, Dimitri’s moods were as easy to read as the weather. This shadow held his most intimate demons: guilt, regret, shame. “What I did was . . . inexcusable and something I will carry with me for the rest of my life,” said Dimitri, “but I was not the same person then as I am now. Professor Byleth showed me that I can be better.”

“People don’t change, Dimitri,” Edelgard growled. She purposefully dragged one clawed hand, screeching against stone, down the pillar, leaving deep gouges. “We only grow better at hiding the worst parts of ourselves. Sometimes even without realizing.”

Dimitri didn’t move, didn’t speak. His shoulders began to shake ever so slightly.

“She’s toying with you, Your Majesty,” interjected Dedue flatly. “Do not listen to a word she says.”

Edelgard’s toothy grin widened, and her eyes were bright with interest upon Dimitri as her words delivered the desired effect. “In truth, perhaps we are both monsters at he—”

 _“Enough!”_ Dimitri snarled. Then, in one powerful motion, he pulled back his arm, lined up his lance, and hurled Areadbhar at Edelgard.

The hero’s relic struck true, burying itself deep within Edelgard’s shoulder. She roared in pain as much as fury and let go of the crossbeam, dropping to the floor on all fours with a heavy, booming sound like thunder. The floor shook violently when she landed, shattering tile and nearly upending Gilbert in the process. She quickly extended to her full height and pulled the lance out with a spray of blood before she tossed it into the darkness. A desperate volley of arrows whistled overhead and glanced off her scales. With a flash of her teeth, she brandished her talons at the now-weaponless Dimitri, who continued to stare her down with an unmoved look of defiance. When someone chucked a bolt of lightning at her head, Edelgard didn’t even flinch. Crimson eyes, now filled with loathing, remained upon Dimitri. 

Catherine barreled forward with a wordless battle cry, Thunderbrand raised. But before she could land the blow, Edelgard’s tail whipped out and caught her mid-swing, flinging her to the ground.

Byleth lunged, and the Sword of the Creator unraveled towards Edelgard, coiling expertly around one outstretched hand. A second bolt of Thunder exploded into the side of her face.

“Here, Edelgard!” he shouted. “Face me!”

Edelgard stopped. When she turned her head to look at him, sparks of electricity were still dancing across her face, and in the half-light, he thought he saw her grimacing expression soften with something like remorse. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light? She began to lower her ensnared hand. “My teacher . . . Facing you, I grow weak. . . .”

_But . . . why?_

But Byleth didn’t have time to ponder how or why a part of her seemed to remember him fondly. In a flash, Sylvain swooped down upon Edelgard from above and dragged the Lance of Ruin across her face. “Gotcha!” he crowed, sounding pleased.

Edelgard roared again, angrily, and clutched her face. Alarmingly, the Sword of the Creator went taut in Byleth’s hand. He flicked his wrist, and the sword retracted before it could be wrenched away.

“Well done, Sylvain!” said Ingrid, who had already interposed herself defensively between Edelgard and Dimitri, her expression grim with determination.

“I will make you regret that,” Edelgard growled, her eyes narrowing at the wyvern lord. Again, Byleth felt the familiar tug in his chest as Edelgard began to blur. Her form became as ambiguous as smoke, hazy and indistinct. She crossed the distance between the two in the blink of an eye. This time, he resisted, pulling back on the Divine Pulse, causing Edelgard to slow just in time for Sylvain and his wyvern to escape her talons by the skin of their teeth. 

Sylvain’s wyvern buffeted her hand with its wings and diverted away with an alarmed shriek. “Whoa! You really don’t play around, do you?” said Sylvain, still grinning. “I gotta say though, I’m sorry to see what a beauty like you did to your pretty face.”

“Sylvain! Shut up and fight, you idiot!” shouted Felix. As Edelgard made another furious swipe at Sylvain, the mortal savant ran under her and slashed at her ankles with his Wo Dao.

Then, out of nowhere, Dedue was suddenly charging towards them. “Here, Your Highness!” He said and tossed Areadbhar towards Dimitri, who caught it clumsily. Byleth hadn’t even noticed that he had gone missing.

Annette and Mercedes skidded to a stop beside Byleth just as he too was about to rejoin the fray. “Professor, what should we do?” asked Mercedes.

Byleth gripped his sword tightly. “Stay here and keep everyone alive,” he said. A part of him was extremely uneasy; he almost felt naked without the Divine Pulse to rely on.

The two frayed-looking women nodded.

Byleth didn’t wait. Like Felix, he ran in, swiping at Edelgard’s legs while she was distracted by the others, but she didn’t even stagger.

From there, the Blue Lions fell into something of a routine: the same tried-and-true strategy they had already used to clear the palace of the armored demonic beasts. One would dart between her legs and attack whatever part of Edelgard they could reach before they withdrew from range of her talons, while another jumped in to distract her. They gave her no room to breathe, nowhere to maneuver. Every time she tried to retreat into the dark, they followed hot on her heels, refusing to let her out of their sight for long. They did this for what seemed like ages to little avail, axe and sword and lance working in tandem, alternating between Catherine, Gilbert, Sylvain, Dimitri, Dedue, Ingrid, and Byleth himself.

For their own part, Annette and Mercedes maintained their distance, raining spells down upon the hegemon whenever it was safe to do so. Ashe and Shamir began to concentrate their fire on Edelgard’s eyes, which proved to be a particularly effective ploy any time someone needed to withdraw.

Remarkably, Edelgard seemed to be in no way affected by their sustained attacks. While the Blue Lions’ breaths grew more and more ragged, and their attacks increasingly desperate, she seemed to be only hitting her stride. Her talons tore through parts of Dedue’s armor and snapped off the head of Gilbert’s axe.

Worst of all were the attempts Edelgard made to accelerate time, until Byleth pushed back against her with the Divine Pulse. He could feel every draining effort, and still nothing they threw at Edelgard seemed to be working. Normal weapons and ranged attacks seemed to have little to no effect on her. Even the Sword of the Creator seemed almost useless.

Byleth knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they were all going to die if he didn’t do something.

Still, he hesitated, staring at the faintly-glowing sword in his hands. He knew it was a gamble, but it was the only thing left to try . . . The very last thing he wanted.

“Sothis,” he said softly, “I’m going to need your power.”

In a blink, the girl appeared floating in the air beside him. “Of course you do,” she said sternly, “and it’s yours if you want it. But please, before we do, recall the last time we merged our souls. There is a . . . an adjustment period for your body. We must be careful not to—”

A beam of sickly red light cut through the dark without warning. Byleth’s head snapped towards it, and he saw that Edelgard’s jaws had opened wide, wider than what was possible for a normal human being, trying to lock onto Sylvain with the magic emitting from her mouth. Sylvain’s wyvern was able to dodge a few sweeps of the beam but not for long; eventually, it clipped a wing. With a screech, the beast began to dip towards the ground, flapping frantically, like a bird with a broken wing. It hit the floor hard, still thrashing, struggling to regain its footing while Sylvain clung to the saddle in a daze.

With another rumbling laugh, Edelgard closed her jaws with a snap. Dimitri sprinted between the two, and Edelgard swiped at him with her talons, which he clumsily struck away.

The adrenaline kicked in like a punch to the gut, and Byleth’s mouth twisted. “Sothis, we’re running out of time!”

“Oh, bother,” she sighed.

Quickly, she outstretched her hands towards him, and Byleth did likewise with his free hand, until the tips of their fingers were touching. Then she was fading, his body absorbing hers into his chest. A rush of intense power was suddenly unleashed within him, and the Sword of the Creator’s glow intensified.

Knowing his time was limited, Byleth didn’t hesitate. He raced under Edelgard and hacked at her legs like before. He poured as much of his strength into his swings as he could. This time, his strikes cut deep and momentarily brought her to her knees.

 _“Now!”_ Byleth shouted at a surprised-looking Dimitri, who nodded. Faerghus’s future king moved quickly. By the time his torch fell to the floor with a hiss, Edelgard was already attempting to rise—

With a running leap, Dimitri gripped Areadbhar with both hands and thrust its tip straight through Edelgard’s chest.

No one moved, and time seemed to slow of its own accord. The Hegemon sighed, low and deep. Dimitri yanked out his lance with a wary look and stepped back.

The gangly body exploded in a tidal wave of smoke, sweeping over them all like a gentle breeze and leaving behind a kneeling Edelgard in her war regalia on the floor. Surviving patches of mottled scale disappeared slowly across her face, until all that remained was smooth, unblemished skin — for the most part. Her face was streaked with sweat and dirt, her silvery hair disheveled, and she was bleeding from a gash over her left eye. But she was still alive, and that was the important thing.

Swaying now with exhaustion, Byleth felt the most surreal feeling of déjà vu and wondered, albeit briefly, if Edelgard could feel that too.

Dimitri stood unmoving. He stared at her for awhile, and Byleth stared at him, trying to read his mood, but it was stony. Unreadable. His expression was a far cry from the Boar’s, snarling and always angry, but still . . .

 _It’s going to be okay,_ Byleth told himself firmly. _Dimitri will do the right thing. The honorable thing. Like always._

Dimitri took a step forward, then another, and didn’t stop until he stood in front of her. “El . . .” he said softly, extending his gauntleted hand.

For one fleeting moment, Edelgard actually smiled at Dimitri in a defeated sort of way. Then her lilac eyes flickered towards _him_ , and Byleth thought, _Maybe._ Maybe this time, she would take his hand. She would surrender, Dimitri would become king of Fódlan, and they could all move towards putting this senseless war behind them. He knew Dorothea and Marianne would appreciate that most of all after seeing most of their respective classmates killed.

That illusion, as pretty as it was, shattered quickly.

Byleth saw her reach into her regalia and reflexively raised his sword, grip tightening. Beside him, the other Blue Lions did the same, but it was too late. Before any of them could even think to move, much less reach Dimitri’s side in a blink, it was already over: Edelgard had thrown a dagger at Dimitri, and Dimitri, grunting, had thrust Areadbhar through her stomach in retaliation. He twisted the lance before he yanked it out.

Edelgard fell forward with the momentum.

Byleth could only stare as her blood began to pool on the floor around Dimitri’s feet. With another grunt, Faerghus’s future king pulled the dagger out of his shoulder and let it fall to the floor beside Edelgard. The straight blade, the blue grip, the golden pommel. Byleth recognized it then — the gifted dagger. The very same Dimitri had returned to her before assaulting Enbarr.

Byleth activated the Divine Pulse at once, and watched as time flew by in reverse, stealing what little strength he had left. He didn’t care. He had to try. He knew he didn’t have much time remaining. He was already feeling the debilitating effects of merging with Sothis once again, and this act would be his last before he passed out. 

Time stopped just as Dimitri was about to step forward.

“No, Dimitri,” said Byleth. “Allow me.”

Surprised, Dimitri turned to stare at him. His brows furrowed when he saw the determined look in his teacher’s eyes. “Professor, I . . .” he began and then stopped himself with a small nod. “Very well. I will abide by whatever you decide.”

He smiled. “You believed in me when no one else could. I trust you.”

Eyes drooping, Byleth nodded at him and staggered to Edelgard. “It’s over, Edelgard,” he said tiredly, extending his hand towards her. “It’s time to surrender.”

Wordlessly, Edelgard stared at him from behind her carefully-guarded expression, and her lilac eyes traveled down to rest upon his outstretched hand. She stared at his hand for so long that he began to believe she would do as asked — or else attack him as she had Dimitri. If she did, he thought, it would be more than justified. An eye for an eye, a life for a life . . .

Still, that wasn’t how he wanted this to end.

 _Please,_ he thought. _Take my hand. You know how this will end if you don’t._

But Edelgard was not Sothis. If she could hear his thoughts, she certainly didn’t show it. Her eyes rose slowly to meet his gaze, and somehow, remarkably, her mask slipped. She smiled at him slightly, not in resignation as she had before, but mournful, almost apologetic. It was a fleeting smile, and he was momentarily stunned by its genuinity. Then her expression hardened as she once again reached into her regalia and removed the dagger, only to take it in both of her hands and this time plunge it into the center of her chest. With her sheer strength, she had no difficulty at all in penetrating her own regalia and ribcage.

For a moment, Byleth could only stare at her in stunned silence, unwilling to believe his own eyes. He was on his knees by her side before he could even begin to process what had happened, holding her as she died again, and this time, the blood dribbled from her nose and mouth as he wrenched the dagger out of her ribcage. Once it was out, he dropped the dagger like it was hot, held the flat of his palm over the hole in her chest, and channeled what little healing magic he knew through the gate. His hand lit up faintly but nothing happened. Her flesh did not seamlessly mend itself under his touch. 

_No,_ he thought frantically. _No, no, no._ This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Not at all.

He tried pouring more of himself into the magic, tried thinking of Sothis, tried remembering everything he had ever been told by Manuela or taught about the Church of Seiros, but he was so tired. Too tired. Try as he might to overcome it, her body stayed bloody and broken. Or was it because he had too little faith in Sothis — in himself? — to help her. Mouth twisting, he looked at her through his heavy eyes. Even her eyes were lightless. Cloudy now but fixed in eternal defiance. He touched her jaw, left a bloody crescent around her chin.

_Failed . . . again. . . ._

He shook his head, looked down. His hands were slick with fresh blood, shining in their torchlight.

_My fault . . ._

Byleth felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. When he looked up, he saw it was Dimitri, his expression grim. Mercedes stood beside him, looking helpless.

“Damn it all, El,” sighed Dimitri. “You were always too stubborn for your own good.”

Byleth quickly scrambled to his feet, wanting to put distance between him and the corpse beside him. He started to stagger towards the hallway he knew led to the dungeons. He picked at the hollowness in his chest. Even old habits were hard to break. This time, he didn’t cry. Whether it was because he was too tired or too hardened to this pain, he didn’t know. Maybe he had always known, deep down, that this would happen all along. After all, what wouldn’t Edelgard do to avoid being Dimitri’s prisoner? The woman who would live on in infamy, known as the once-emperor who lost the war, lost her friends, lost _everything_ . . .

Behind him, Dimitri sounded concerned. “Professor, what’s wrong? Where are you—?”

Byleth ignored him, ignored the other Blue Lions clambering around him with their concerned faces and questions. “What happened to you?” they asked, breathless. “Professor, your appearance . . .” they marveled. “You look like Lady Rhea.” They wouldn’t understand. Not for awhile at least.

Byleth didn’t make it far before he stumbled, leaving bloody handprints on the floor beneath him. He felt someone impossibly strong lift him up, taking his arm and looping it around their neck just as the blanket of exhaustion fell over him. Then he was falling. 

He felt so weightless as he fell. As if the slightest gust of wind might blow him away.

* * *

Decades later, after the last of his students passed away and the hollowness in his chest returned in force, Byleth tried to use the Divine Pulse to return to Remire Village once again.

What he hadn’t considered was Edelgard in her Hegemon form.

This time, Byleth awoke on the floor of the imperial throne room, to someone shaking his shoulders and calling out his name.

“Professor! Wake up!”

“Come on, Mercy! We need to—”

His eyes snapped open, only to be confronted with two worried-looking ex-students. Confused, he furrowed his brow at them. “Where . . .?”

“Professor Byleth, are you all right?” asked Mercedes urgently.

Annette was on his other side immediately. “You collapsed out of nowhere!”

Slowly, so slowly, his memories began to return to him. Fighting through Enbarr. Petra and Hubert’s deaths. The demonic beasts and unfamiliar mages within the palace. Solon and Myson. Edelgard.

“I’m fine,” he said shakily. His eyes lingered on Mercedes and Annette, surprised to see his former students so soon -- and significantly younger than he remembered -- before he shook his head to dispel the ghosts of their future selves. He began to look around for the Sword of the Creator and found it lying just out of reach. He reached out a hand to grip it tightly.

Sothis winked into sight. “Hmph. Took you long enough to wake,” she said, sounding concerned.

“Can you still fight?” asked Mercedes.

Byleth nodded at her and looked to Sothis. _I’m . . . going to need your power again,_ he thought. _I’m not strong enough to do this without you._

Sothis nodded. “Of course, little one. You needn’t even ask.”

Just then, a terrible roar shook the throne room. Byleth’s head snapped towards the sound as he watched in abject horror as Edelgard in her Hegemon form bowled over Dimitri and Catherine and leapt over Felix. If Edelgard had been angry before, that anger was not even a shadow of the fury that was now visible in her every movement. Gone was the cold, calculating monster; in its place stood a reactionary beast. Pulling back her arm, she lashed out at Dedue with all her strength, launching him like a ragdoll into the darkness. There was a loud crash, and then there was no sound at all.

Furious, Edelgard continued fighting, lashing out at Dimitri and Catherine, throwing Gilbert to the floor. 

Byleth took a few shaky steps. “Dedue?” he called out, but there was no answer.

Sothis held out her hands to him. “Come now,” she said, “there’s no time to waste.”

Byleth touched her hands to his, saw her disappear, felt her presence absorbed into his chest. The burst of power was a pleasant rush, flowing within him, and the Sword of the Creator’s glow intensified.

He thought quickly. If she could stop him from using the Divine Pulse to go back to the beginning, there was no point in defeating her again. Only the past held his answers now, not the future. Come what may, he had to force the Divine Pulse through.

He took a deep breath and activated the Divine Pulse. And for a moment, time itself ground to a halt.

. . . before it all came barreling back.

Again, Byleth was thrown into the present with a lurch. He didn’t get to try a second time.

Edelgard, it seemed, had noticed him at last. In one powerful motion, she _smashed_ Felix into the floor and charged Byleth.

 _“You!”_ she growled at him, and he barely had time to raise his sword before he too was swatted away into the darkness.

Byleth hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him. Dazed, he rolled over onto his back, cringed from the pain even that effort caused, and lay still, staring up into blackness. He felt like he’d been kicked several times in the chest by a horse.

A second passed before Edelgard was upon him once more. All he saw were two hot coals coming straight for him.

He tried to rise, but his protesting body was too slow. One of Edelgard’s hands came down quickly on top of him, pinning him in place. Like a cat with a mouse. There was a white-hot blinding pain, and Byleth groaned.

_“This is your fault!”_

All he could smell was roses. Roses interspersed with the acrid scent of old blood. He twisted his head to the side and tried squirming, but the movement only served to exacerbate the pain. He could feel one of Edelgard’s talons digging into his shoulder, tearing through his armor as easily as his flesh. With his free hand, he tried reaching out into the darkness, hoping by some miracle to find the Sword of the Creator within arm’s reach — but his grasping fingers felt nothing but cold tile.

“I remember . . . darkness,” growled Edelgard. “I remember . . . cold. . . .”

Shocked, Byleth could only stare at those soulless eyes blearily through the pain. Did she remember . . . dying?

Byleth knew he had to stop this. If he died here, Edelgard would have little trouble from the greatly-weakened Blue Lions.

He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there, hunched over him. He could feel her hot breath on his face. 

He saw the light from Dimitri and the others looking for him, desperately calling his name, and he was half-tempted to answer, though he knew it would be a bad idea.

“I can save them, Edelgard,” he bit out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them. “Just let me go back. Hubert, Petra, Caspar, Linhardt, Bernie—”

Her answer was more pain. He felt the pressure on his chest build, crushing him into the floor as it started to give way beneath him, causing the tiles to crack and crater around him. The talon pushed in deeper. He cried out.

 _“Do. Not. Speak. Their. Names!”_ she hissed.

“I can still save you,” he mumbled. “I know I can.”

Irrevocably, the pressure lessened. “My teacher . . .”

“All I need is one more chance.”

“Go then,” she said softly. 

So he reached into his chest one more time and tugged. 


End file.
